


By Accord

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Banter, Battle, But also yes it is, Coming Untouched, Cutting skin for blood to simulate loss of virginity, Daggers, Disguise, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, King Kylo, Knifeplay, Kylo is such a mess I love him, Marriage of Convenience, Masks, Masturbation, No Pregnancy, No that’s not a euphemism, Period-appropriate discussion of heirs, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Sword polishing, Swordfighting, The knife isn’t actually supposed to be sexual but Kylo’s dick missed the memo, Wedding Night, peace treaty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: She looks over her shoulder at him, just for a moment. Defiance burns in her beautiful eyes.He smiles grimly. He’d never thought to marry. Because he’d never thought of her.----------A peace treaty, an arranged marriage, and a bride entirely devoid of meekness or obedience. Kylo will tame her, unless she tames him first.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 261
Kudos: 940





	1. Dagger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TourmalineGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineGreen/gifts).



> Moodboard images by [MizKittyMystic!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizKittyMystic) 💛
> 
> Trix, you’re a precious gem who deserves the world, but as I can’t give it to you, please accept this fic instead.

_“You know what the stakes are.”_

_“I do.”_

_“I’ve taught you everything I can.”_

_“I’m prepared.”_

_“You must appear to submit to him. What happens in private is your own business. They say he is...cruel.”_

_“I can take care of myself.”_

_“I would give anything to spare you this.”_

_“It’s what I was born for.”_

_“Remember. No matter what happens, he must never know. Guard the secret like your own life.”_

_“I’ll guard it as if it were your life, Your Majesty.”_

_“My dear child. Are you ready?”_

_“Yes.”_

* * *

She is dignified in defeat—Kylo will grant her that much. The queen’s head is held as high as if he were crawling to her to beg for peace and not the other way around. He cannot tell her age; it could be forty or sixty. Her son stands at her side: a proud princeling whose army could not withstand Kylo’s. Kylo scoffs silently at his glower. It means as little as the hiss of a week-old kitten.

They have come in their crowns. Kylo does not wear his, because what need has he for the trappings of power? Power itself is enough, though this puny prince will never know it. He wears black on black and rides his warhorse. Midnight paws restlessly, snorting at the inaction. _There are enemies,_ he seems to nicker, _why may I not attack?_ Kylo reins him in, for now.

The queen stands with neatly folded hands, waiting for Kylo to dismount. He does not. “What are your terms?”

She looks up, mouth momentarily slack with shock and anger that he would not come to meet her face to face. Kylo stoops for no one. “If you would dismount, we might discuss them.” She is poise incarnate.

Kylo smirks. “If you have anything you dare to consider to be anything other than worthless to me, offer it now.”

Her lips clench, almost imperceptibly. “Very well. This conflict was not of our making, and it has been a source of great suffering for both our people.”

“Yours more than mine,” Kylo retorts, “the latter of whom have the advantage of the rule of a _strong_ king.”

The queen draws herself still taller. “I did not come here to be insulted.”

“And yet here you are, being insulted.”

The prince’s hand itches toward where his sword would be, had he not disarmed for the occasion. The queen never so much as flinches. “The loss of life and property is untenable. The suffering grows too great.”

Midnight stirs restlessly, and Kylo is on the point of giving him free rein. “Are you here to bargain for peace or to waste my time with pleas for mercy?”

“I am here,” and the queen’s hand trembles for the first time, “to offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

There is not much anymore that surprises Kylo. This does. “To unite the kingdoms?”

“No,” the queen retorts quickly. “We would retain our sovereignty. Under my rule, and that of my son after I die.”

Kylo snorts. “What sort of exchange is this? I can find a bride wherever I want.”

“How many are of royal blood?” asks the queen.

Kylo considers. It is a fair point, but from all that the rumors have said about the princess, she is weak and sickly. Why else would she have been hidden away? “I’ll not take an invalid to wife, no matter how royal her blood.”

The queen replies evenly, “She is no invalid.”

“And you expect me to take your word?” Kylo scoffs.

“No, I know you have never been taught to trust. Kira is here,” she says calmly, “for your inspection.”

A veiled figure emerges from one of the carriages behind. She is tall for a woman, but slight. She carries herself with her mother’s dignity. She comes to stand beside the queen, but she does not remove her veil.

This girl—woman—achieves what her mother could not: Kylo dismounts. His strides make short work of the distance that separates them. He grasps the veil in a gloved hand, listening for a gasp of outrage. He hears none. Incensed at the lack of response, he tears it off her head. It yanks a comb from her hair, but she does not cry out. She looks at him serenely, evenly—straight in his eyes. It is _he_ who gasps. At the audacity of a maiden to raise her eyes to a king, and at her beauty, startling in its directness. He would give a great deal more than the sliver of his lands they insists are theirs in exchange for her these eyes, these lips.

He reaches out to grab her wrist. Her arm clenches quickly before going lax in his grip. He brings her hand toward his mouth as if he would kiss it, but instead he flips it palm up, bending her wrist to his will. He strokes her palm with one gloved finger. She shivers, whether with fear or revulsion he can’t tell, but makes no sound, nor do her eyes abandon their steady perusal of his face. He could take her thumb into his mouth, suck it down to the root. He wonders if she would be so unflappable then. He could test her flanks as he would a horse, and drag his hands up over her hips and feel her quiver beneath his palms.

But no, she would not quiver. She would watch him with the same steel in her eyes as she does now. He could rip her gown from her body and her jaw might tighten but she would look straight ahead with the pride of a princess. Of a queen.

“Yes,” Kylo says, never looking away from her. “I accept.” He turns back to his horse and mounts easily. “Say your goodbyes.”

The queen turns pale. “Now?”

“It was my impression that you wanted a peace agreement now.”

“It would be improper for the princess to go with your party unaccompanied.”

Kylo’s face is stone. “She will be accompanied by me.”

The queen falters for the first time. “You— you know what I am referring to.”

He sneers. “Ah, your daughter’s _virtue,_ is that it?”

“We agree to a betrothal. Let her return with us while preparations are made for the wedding day.”

“So you do not care for your people’s suffering after all.”

The queen’s knuckles are white. “I do.”

Kylo lets Midnight dart forward a few yards. The queen doesn’t flinch. Neither does Kira. “Does the princess have a lady’s maid in her carriage?”

The queen nods warily.

“She may accompany her.”

The queen falters, but her daughter catches her elbow. Kylo turns his horse away. He has no desire to witness tearful adieux. He could ride ahead, leave her to his attendants. But instead he turns back to watch his future bride climb into her carriage. She looks over her shoulder at him, just for a moment. Defiance burns in her beautiful eyes.

He smiles grimly. He’d never thought to marry. Because he’d never thought of her.

* * *

The journey back to the castle is short, but made slightly longer by the addition of a carriage to the retinue. Kylo thinks of Kira, sitting inside with her companion, on the way to the home she had not expected would be hers so soon. He wonders who counseled the marriage—the queen? one of her councilors?—and how fervently Kira had fought against it. Somehow he can’t imagine her having meekly consented. Meekness, he suspects, is not in her repertoire. Consent, though...

Unbidden, the fantasy comes to him of her with unbound hair, a white linen shift rumpled up around her waist, lying in his bed. Smiling up at him, untying the neck and tugging at it so he can kiss her untouched shoulder as her knees splay to welcome him. A foolish vision. She’s a princess, soon to be a queen: their marriage bed will be one of frigid duty, judging by her coldness to him so far. Still, he might coax some pleasure out of her. He wonders if she will consider it a sin. It well may be, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other for him: his soul is too long blackened for hope of redemption. All he can do is besmirch her. But what sweet damnation lies between her thighs.

The gait of his horse makes his current state of arousal uncomfortable, and he draws deep breaths of the crisp air and turns his thoughts instead to logistics. The queen’s bedchamber adjacent to his will need to be prepared, and the wedding conducted. The archbishop will insist on all sorts of tiresome procedures for the coronation. Kylo couldn’t care less for the trappings of monarchy. Married or not, queen or not, she cannot belong to him more finally than she does already. He has her body; God can worry about her soul.

Kylo does not intend to be a harsh husband; he will simply require the obedience owed to him by any subject, much less a wife. She may have illusions about resistance, or even gaining some womanly power over him. He smirks. If that’s so, he’ll soon set her right.

* * *

Her first reaction at the bargain was terror. She thought she would have more time: at least a few more nights to sleep in her own bed and say proper goodbyes and steel herself for the life that awaited her. But instead she climbed in the carriage, shaking, and told Rose in as few words as possible what had transpired. Rose is crying but trying not to let her see. She pretends she doesn’t. She looks at the curtain that covers the window and thinks of Paige, and how Rose was denied even scant seconds to part with the people that made up a life that’s no longer hers.

Rose will be strong later, she knows, probably just time for her to fall apart. It’s how they survive: taking turns.

She considers her situation. So much of what lies ahead is a question; so much depends on Kylo. Her husband that is to be. Will he be malleable? He didn’t look it from their brief interaction. He looked even more unyielding than she had feared. It will take all her wits, and some other things too, to withstand him.

She cannot regret her decision, designed as it was to safeguard those she loved. It was she who had approached the queen with the scheme. It was the queen who had tried in vain to dissuade her, in a long night of maternal tears. But it was she who was victorious come morning. She would marry Kylo, if he would have her. And judging by the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, he certainly means to have her.

She smirks. She’ll soon disabuse him of that notion.

* * *

She peeks out the sliver of window uncovered by the curtain from time to time, but dusk approaches too quickly for her to get more than indistinct glimpses of Kylo’s kingdom. She is filled with instinctive revulsion at the knowledge of being brought into her enemy’s stronghold, from which escape won’t easily be possible. She hopes it will not be necessary.

Rose’s tears have stopped, and she speaks with their customary informality. “What should I do?”

“I don’t know yet. Stay close to me. Keep your ears open, and be ready to take any opportunity that presents itself.”

Rose nods resolutely.

“I’m sorry that you were here, I never would have asked you to—”

Rose silences her with a raised hand. “My place is with you. You know that.”

“Do you think it will work? Will I survive?”

Rose raises her eyebrows. _“Kylo_ should be the one wondering if he’ll survive you.”

* * *

The carriage comes to a halt, and she composes herself as she waits for the door to open. Rose gives her hand a squeeze, and she returns it. The door opens, and she automatically reaches out to take the proffered hand of the coachman to help her out, but falters when she finds not the coachman but Kylo himself waiting with his gloved hand outstretched. He seems to see her hesitation, because his lips curl in a slight smirk and his eyes gleam with victory. She steels herself, takes his hand with slightly more force than is necessary, and climbs out. She is even more at a disadvantage standing next to him, she realizes belatedly, since now his extra head of height becomes again apparent. A line of servants and courtiers has assembled to greet them. She wonders if Kylo merits this reception following every afternoon’s excursion, or if a messenger came ahead with the news of a betrothal. If they are looking for weakness, she resolves, they won’t find it. She raises her head and takes Kylo’s arm with all the icy grace she can muster. She’ll show them what kind of woman her queen raised.

She looks straight ahead, so she can’t tell if Kylo looks down at her as he escorts her inside. He doesn’t speak, and nor does she. He leads her in through doors that close behind them with a disconcertingly resounding thud. She can only trust that Rose is following closely.

If he wants her to show or express admiration for the castle, he’s disappointed. She carefully examines her surroundings without appearing to do so, soaking in all she can that may be of use later. The structure is nothing of note; one castle is much like another, though Kylo’s tends more to the dark and cold, with none of the colorful tapestries of her former home. Her heart clenches at the memory, and her hand must too, because Kylo hisses at the sudden strength of her grip on his arm. She quickly remembers herself and lightens her grasp to a mere touch.

He stops abruptly, outside a door doubly illuminated by the torches that rests in twin iron sconces on either side. He says, “These will be your chambers until the wedding.”

Emboldened by his lack of overt hostility, she looks up at him. “When will that be?”

He smirks. “Whenever I say.”

She hesitates and tries a different tack. “I would wish to know...when I am to become yours.”

He glances behind at the dozen guards and courtiers who line the halls. “Leave us!” he barks. Soon only she, Rose, and Kylo remain. He steps forward and she retreats, until her back presses against the door. He deliberately plants his hands on the wood on either side of her head. She signals to Rose with a quick hand motion not to interfere.

“Perhaps I was not clear,” he growls. “You have been mine ever since I touched you. I can take whatever I want.”

Her hand darts too quickly for him to react before she has the dagger pressed to his throat. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe, he just looks at her with the closest thing to respect she’s seen in his eyes.

“You’re mistaken,” she says quietly, “if you believe me to be a helpless princess. I have said I will be your wife, and I will. But you will show me the courtesy I deserve.” She presses the dagger just a little harder. He doesn’t shy away; if anything, he leans into it. “You will not touch me, sir, unless _I_ allow.”

She doesn’t understand why his eyes have gotten so dark. He pants. He looks at her not with anger, but with something else in his eyes that she can’t name, and it frightens her because she does not recognize it. _“You,_ madam, will address me as Majesty or husband.”

“You are not my husband.”

His breaths fray at the edges. “I will be.”

She slowly pulls the dagger away. “But not yet.”

He sinks toward her as if his neck misses the dagger’s edge. He catches himself before he falls into her, then pushes himself hurriedly back from the door. He looks away. “I am sure you are fatigued. Food will be brought to your rooms tonight. You will join me to break fast tomorrow.”

She slides her dagger back in her skirts and curtsies, sinking the perfect degree for a princess to a king. He strides away before she straightens.

When he rounds the corner, Rose approaches and lets out a shaky breath. “I changed my mind. You couldn’t even go five minutes without threatening regicide. You’re not going to survive this after all.”

She shrugs. “I’ve made it this far.”

Rose shakes her head doubtfully. “That’s because it’s not your wedding night yet.”

“Rose,” she says, only half listening. “I just realized something.”

“What?”

She grins. “He didn’t take my dagger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this should be a fun romp! 😊


	2. Horse

She haunts his dreams. He reaches out for her but she darts away. He can’t touch her, not without the bite of the blade at his throat.

He leaves a mess in the sheets. It should’ve been in her.

* * *

He eats alone, it seems—or did, until her.

She curtsies low. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

He hardly spares her a glance as she’s led to the vacant seat to his right. Rose takes her place against the wall behind her. Kylo doesn’t acknowledge their arrival, just ducks his head and takes a bite of brown bread.

She presses onward brightly. “I trust you’re well.”

He grunts, still without looking at her.

Undeterred, she helps herself from the serving platters. She’s halfway through her plate when he glances over and says, “You’re wearing the same gown. As yesterday.”

She swallows and says neutrally, “You may recall, Your Majesty, that I was not prepared for anything other than a journey of several hours.”

He grunts. “You need clothes.”

“I can send for my wardrobe, Your Majesty, if you allow me a messenger.”

He shakes his head. “You will have new clothes. And a wedding gown.” He looks over at her.

She keeps her tone even and looks straight ahead. “As you say, Your Majesty.” She takes another bite.

He grunts again. She can’t tell if it’s in approval or annoyance.

“Did Your Majesty have a restful sleep?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what, Your Majesty?”

“You know what.”

“It is only at Your Majesty’s instruction that I—”

“Well, my instruction is changed,” he snaps.

“Yes, _husband,”_ she says, leaning into the word.

His eyes snap up to hers. “Do not call me husband.” His knuckles whiten as his fist clenches. “Not until it’s true.”

She takes a sip with perfect equanimity. “When will that be?”

“Within the week.” He seems to be watching for a reaction. She doesn’t give him one.

“Very well,” she says calmly.

“You sit there,” he hisses, “as if you hadn’t...” He trails off.

“Yes?” she prompts innocently.

He thrusts his plate away with a clatter. “You will join me each morning and dine in the hall by my side at night. If your behavior is anything less than respectful obedience I will ship you back to your mother and unleash my army on your people.”

She looks resolutely ahead.

“Is that entirely understood?”

She looks him straight in the eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he snarls.

She smiles grimly. “Yes, husband.”

He pushes his chair abruptly from the table, rises and comes to stand behind her. She wonders if it’s her turn to feel a dagger at her skin. But what touches her neck instead is his hand, splayed around the column of her throat. Not squeezing, but resting there—to let her know that he _could_ squeeze. It is only his whim that stays his hand.

Focused as she is on his hand, she doesn’t realize that he’s leaned down until she feels his breath on her ear. It comes in a hot whisper: “You are playing with fire, Princess.”

His hand is gone and so is he, and she can breathe again.

For the moment, anyway.

* * *

Her behavior is maddeningly perfect. He watches and waits for some flaw, some reason to storm to her chamber door at night and tear it open. She wears the dresses the seamstresses make for her and she bows and smiles and charms his court. A perfect bride. A perfect queen.

He tosses and turns at night, trying to reconcile the charming diplomat with the ferocious wildcat who had pressed a blade to his skin. He wonders if she saw the bulge in his breeches and if she knew what it meant. _He_ hardly knows what it meant. Why should his body have desired disobedience and danger? How should a dagger in a delicate hand have undone his monastic self-denial? He can barely wait until his chamber doors shut behind him at night to tear his breeches down and take himself in hand like some overeager youth. His gloved hand is hard and punishing, and though he milks himself dry it doesn’t stop his body from betraying him again in sleep. As if his neglected manhood is trying to make up for lost time.

The wedding is in two days. Then he’ll keep her in his bed for a week. A month. A year. She awakened this cursed hunger in him, and she will bear the brunt of its effects.

He’ll sit her on his cock at mealtimes, in the hall. He wonders if she’ll still smile so perfectly.

 _Kira._ He hasn’t known a moment’s peace since he’s known her.

* * *

“Is the gown ready? For the wedding?” he grunts over the morning meal.

“I believe so.” She delicately spears a sausage.

He grunts.

She will not call him _husband_ today. She won’t risk his ire, not when it is so close to being true. “Sire?”

“Hmm?”

“May I ask something of you? As a wedding gift?”

He grunts. “Your kingdom’s safety is not gift enough?”

She tactically murmurs, “I have no kingdom but this one.”

He tries to hide how pleased he is, but she can tell. He would grin like a praised boy if she weren’t there to see. She smirks inwardly. It’s almost too easy.

“Well?” he asks.

“I would wish a horse to ride. For fresh air and exercise.”

His lips curl. “I can assure you, Princess, you will not want for exercise once we are wed.”

She chokes and quickly stifles it. She won’t glare at him. Too much is at stake. “A horse would afford me fresh air as well.”

He sits back in his chair and drapes his arms along the armrests. “You think you can charm your way to getting what you want. But you’ve made a mistake. You’ve shown yourself to me already. I know you, Princess. I know you are not the perfect bride you pretend to be.”

She clears her throat. “I beg Your Majesty to forgive my earlier...behavior. I have no intention of countering your will in any matter, great or small.”

“You will be better acquainted with my will tomorrow, Princess.”

“Indeed,” says drily.

He shifts in his chair, frustrated that she didn’t take his crude bait. Or perhaps uncomfortable in his seat for some other reason. “I assure you, no part of it is _small.”_

She pops a grape in her mouth and crushes it between her teeth. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

He flushes. “Do not forget yourself, Princess.”

She takes a sip of wine and swallows. “I have no intention of doing so, Your Majesty.”

“Your personal effects will be moved to the chamber adjoining mine.”

She squeezes her hands together in her lap and looks straight ahead. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I can see it in your eyes, Princess. You still mean to defy me.”

“No.” She looks to him earnestly. “What I mean to do is to keep my...former kingdom safe.”

He studies her wonderingly. “You really care about them, don’t you? A handful of peasants?”

She looks back at her plate. “Yes.”

“Why? What are they to you?”

“They are...they were my countrymen. They deserve to live their lives in peace, without threat of aggression.”

“They were your _subjects,”_ he corrects.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“You will forget about them,” he observes carelessly. Or perhaps commands.

“As you say.”

She fingers the dagger in its hidden pocket in her skirts.

* * *

“What news is there?”

Rose sits close at her elbow, under the pretense of helping with her embroidery. Even stone walls have ears. “Skirmishes have already resumed. No casualties yet, but Kylo’s men persist in trying to collect taxes. It’s not even about the taxes. They are simply restless with no one to fight.”

She sighs. “I thought the peace would hold a week, at least.”

Rose shrugs. “Men lack self-control.”

“Kylo will give me a horse. We’re halfway there.”

Rose snorts. “You _think_ he will give you a horse. Once you are wed tomorrow, he won’t need to even try to stay in your good graces.”

“I don’t have any good graces.”

“Exactly. How you’ve been able to keep this act up even this long is a miracle.”

She lowers her voice further still. “Have you found a way to get it?”

“It is dangerous,” Rose whispers. “I...I can, but I fear for your safety.”

“I’ve been fine for a year. More than that.”

“It’s different now.”

“It’s just as necessary now as it was before.”

Rose untangles a snarled thread, silent for a moment, then asks quietly, “Will you let him bed you?”

The needle jabs through the fabric with more force than necessary. “He thinks I will.”

* * *

His last night alone. He resists the urge to rut into the sheets. He won’t waste his spend tonight, not when he will need it tomorrow.

He dreams of unbound chestnut hair and fiery eyes and a cunt hot as damnation. He jolts awake to the dawn and hides his face in the pillow as he furiously abuses himself. He hates her for his weakness and he fucks his fist and he is hers and he is undone. No, he is _not_ weak. He’ll bend her over the altar and take her in front of everyone. She’ll whimper and try to hide her face but her body will sing for him as it recognizes its master. _Kylo,_ she’ll chant in a chorus of wet bliss. _Kylo, husband, Kylo, mine._ He reaches completion with a garbled yell.

He throws a robe on and tears the door open to his guards.

“Tell them I’m ready to be dressed. And send word to the stablemaster: the princess is to have a horse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic with the “enemies to lovers” tag, _and_ my first fic with the “slow burn” tag. What a great day. 😊


	3. Accord

The door shuts with a _thud_ heavy with finality. It is the twin of the _thud_ of hers, next door. He watches the door as he is undressed. It will take longer for her and her lady’s maid, he imagines. He does not know the mysteries of women’s clothing.

He wonders if she would let him undress her, then mentally chides himself for the thought. It is not for her to allow; it is his to order. If he chooses. And he does. He will strip layer after layer until all that remains is her. And he will lay her on his bed and she will spread her legs for him, and reveal that secret place that she would guard from all others but offer freely to her husband.

He suspects there might be no greater pleasure in the world than this: to be yielded to by her.

* * *

She wants to run, to jump, to tumble and roll and get to her feet and run again. There is a fever in her blood that has no outlet. She stands still and lets them dress her: dress her body, dress her hair, drape her in a heavy veil whose weight bears no comparison to that of the crown that will succeed it.

Rose is at her elbow, but they cannot speak freely in the presence of the others. She tries to say with eyes what she cannot with lips: _I’m afraid. It is too real now. Tell me it will be fine. Please._

Rose understands. Rose presses her hand. _Be brave, like you are._

She squares her shoulders. But she cannot shake the dread that enfolds her like the ornate gown she wears. She’s been successful so far, through constant vigilance. She’s made it a week. But what is a week, when a life lies ahead? One misstep will be fatal. Not only to her. Her own life is of little consequence, compared to the hundreds who depend on her. She will give them her obedience, her dedication, her loyalty. She will give all this to them and make her husband believe it is he to whom she offers them.

 _Husband._ She shivers. She will hold only one thing back. They cannot ask it of her. He cannot ask it of her. But he will.

Too soon the summons comes. Her attendants accompany her to the carriage that will bear her to the cathedral. She does not know how far away it is. She does not know anything in this strange kingdom but the walls of the castle. It is not so different, she tries to tell herself. Stone is stone, no matter where. It is the souls inside that change.

She will see the queen again. Perhaps for the last time. She will not cry. She squares her shoulders.

Guards flank the walkway from where the carriage alights to the doors of the cathedral. They appear to be part honor guard, part true protection between her and the peasants that clamor beyond them. She is less afraid of the peasants than the guards.

She is ushered inside and given someone’s arm to hold, and she looks around wildly. Music begins. “Where is the queen?” she begs those closest to her. “We cannot begin without the queen.”

They look at her strangely, and before she can explain what queen she means, she is being prodded down the aisle and Kylo waits at the end and this is surely a waking nightmare. She needs the full length of the cathedral to steel her spine and the concealment of the veil to compose her expression. Her gaze darts from side to side, seeking the one face she longs to see among the rows of nobles. But she is not there: not in the seat of honor that is her due. She was tricked, duped, and now she will never see her again. _You have been mine ever since I touched you. I can take whatever I want._

Kylo’s face is impassive. She takes his arm with an iron grip. As the bishop begins droning a Latin invocation, she hisses, “Where is my mother?”

He does not so much as glance at her. “She could not come.”

“You are lying. Nothing would stop her from being here.”

He sets his jaw. “She could not come, because she was not invited.”

“How _dare_ you.”

“Lower your voice.”

“This was not the agreement.”

“The treaty had no stipulation for your mother’s attendance at the wedding. Your hand, in exchange for peace.”

She digs her fingers harder into his arm.

“This is your home, Kira. I am your family. I know you are capable of resigning yourself with good grace.”

“You know nothing,” she bites, but she knows it is true. What choice does she have? The crown that will be hers sits behind the bishop on the altar, waiting for her head. Waiting for her vow. As Kylo does.

“You have a horse.”

She thinks she misheard him at first, so violent is the shift in topic. “What?”

“You asked for a horse. I have told them to give you one.”

 _You are a child,_ she longs to retort. But she bites her tongue and wonders how it will survive the years of biting.

She does not speak again, and neither does he, except to give the responses they are prompted to give. She seethes with anger and smiles. And when he looks in her eyes and places the crown on her head she knows that he knows that he is not forgiven.

 _Queen._ She turns to survey her subjects, and her eyes sweep over everything and see nothing. And she smiles.

* * *

At last he stands in his under-tunic, all regalia stripped away. The door shuts and he is left alone. He considers where he should stand to receive her. By the bed would be too forward. Not that he can’t be forward, but it would be best to put her at ease. She will be nervous.

He decides to situate himself by the window. The summer days are long, and even after hours of feasting there will be light in the sky for some two hours yet. He debates pulling the draperies. Would that help her comfort? If the fire is the only light that sees what they will do this night?

There is a fist at the door before he has fully prepared himself. “Enter,” he calls, hoping they can’t hear how his voice shakes through the thick wood.

The guard opens the door to admit Kira, garbed in thin slippers, a thick brocade robe, and a perfectly neutral expression that lets slip none of what is in her mind. Trooping in behind her are her maid, the archbishop, his councilors, and a bevy of nobles. When the parade finishes at last, there are a dozen bodies in the chamber beyond the two that should be.

“What is this?” he barks.

The archbishop speaks up. “As you know, sire, the joining of a king and queen is a matter of grave importance to the kingdom, such as requires witnesses to its achievement.”

“Are you saying that you do not trust me to bed my wife?” His eyes sweep over the assembled crowd with menace and come to land on his bride. A sliver of white is visible down the middle of her robe. And beneath the white...

“Of course not, sire, but—”

Kylo closes the distance between himself and his scabbard in three steps and draws his sword in the blink of an eye. He levels it at the archbishop’s nose. “Get out.”

The plump man quivers, “I am sure it is not your majesty’s intention to—”

“You may easily guess my _intention_ for my wife. _Get out.”_

The nobles practically race each other to the door, followed with some urgency by the councilors and the archbishop. Only Kira and her maid remain, and the maid eases the robe from Kira’s shoulders and lays it neatly across the arm of a waiting chair. His wife stands motionless in her shift and slippers. Her eyes have not left him since she entered the room.

The door thuds closed, and they are alone.

He lowers his blade slowly, breathing heavily. He advances on her slowly, and she flinches almost imperceptibly. He realizes he is still holding the sword and throws it aside. It lands on the stone floor with a clang that makes her jump. Her shift is so thin that he can see her nipples: not just their points but the barest hint of dusty pink.

He stops just beyond arm’s reach. “Wife.”

She shivers. “Husband.”

A sudden thought occurs to him. “Has someone told you— what exactly is to happen between us tonight?”

He thinks a wry smile flits across her face, but it could just be a trick of the firelight. “I am not ignorant of married relations. I know what I have to do.”

“Good.” He clears his throat. “That’s good. So, well, that is...” He swallows hard, trying to wet his dry mouth. “Perhaps you should lie on the bed.”

She pads silently to the bed and sits on the edge to remove her slippers. They fall to the floor with a barely perceptible _pat._ She shifts to the head of the bed, lays down docilely on her back, and looks up at the canopy above.

His cock aches with need greater than any he’s ever known. To have her here, on his bed, at his mercy... He only belatedly realizes that he should have disrobed her before she lay down. It will be harder now. Perhaps he won’t, the first time. They can both stay clothed if it will ease her nerves, and once he has taught her bliss the first time, she will let him bare her skin and take her again.

He’s getting ahead of himself. He hasn’t even taken her the first time. The second can wait.

He goes silently to the bed. He tries to crawl to her, but his under-tunic gets caught beneath his knees. He curses and hitches it up with one hand so he can clamber toward her on both knees. At least she isn’t watching his disgrace. She stares upward still, hands folded calmly across her middle. When he reaches her bare feet, he clears his throat. “You must spread your legs.”

She does, pulling her shift up to her thighs to allow room for him between her knees. He takes his position above her but does not touch her yet. She looks over his head, not at him. Her lips are a thin line.

He holds himself over her on his knees and elbows. Is this how it will be? This cold distance and silence?

“I hope...” He gropes for a topic. “I hope the horse is to your liking.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” she answers frigidly, looking determinedly past him.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Why would Your Majesty think that?”

“Perhaps you would have wished me to allow your mother to attend our wedding.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well. It is done, so...”

She could practically pass for a human statue.

He hikes his under-tunic up to his back, so his cock points to her without impediment. “I will...” He clears his throat. “I will enter you now.”

Her hands are gone from her stomach, and Kylo is so occupied with pulling her shift up and settling his hips between her thighs that he doesn’t think about where they may have gone.

Until he feels her blade.

His throat hasn’t forgotten its savage bite. He freezes. His cock jumps.

Her eyes are no longer fixed vacantly beyond his head. Now they burn into his with a dark fire.

“Listen well, _husband.”_ Her voice is low. “Your next move will determine whether your life extends beyond tonight. I have left my kingdom and my family, and I have made my home with my enemy. I have curtsied and smiled and submitted to your will in every small thing. And your soldiers breach the peace treaty each night and I fold my hands and bite my tongue.”

His cock leaks onto her skin. If she feels it, she doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“We said words in that cathedral today for your kingdom. They are not my words, nor are they yours. There was a false, empty agreement for the world. So that they may see what they wish. But now we come to the _true_ accord.”

The bob of his Adam’s apple presses her knife to his skin. “You— you mean you won’t let me bed you?”

Her chuckle is darkly exasperated. “No, Kylo. You seem rather attached to your cock, and if you wish to remain that way, it will not come a single inch closer.”

“But...” His mind whirls in clouds of confused arousal. “You are my wife.”

“I will be your wife in the daytime. You cannot ask more of me than that.”

His voice sounds lost. “Why not?”

Her knife shifts closer to his jaw. “I will come to your rooms each night. The guards will see me coming and going and make assumptions about what happens between us. For the duration of my visits, you will not come within ten feet of my person. I will return to my chamber after a sufficient time has elapsed. And I will continue to be the perfect wife and queen in the day.”

His muscles seize with the torture of not burying himself inside her. “But why?”

“Because my body is mine, to give as I please. And I will never, ever give myself to the enemy of my people.” Her knife presses closer still. “You will _never_ have me.”

He groans as his cock erupts, spraying her with his spend. She releases his throat from the blade’s edge and turns away, either in disgust or to give him a modicum of privacy in his shame. When the hot rain on her skin comes to a trickle and then an end, she pushes him off her and climbs off the bed. He lies in a daze on his back like a helpless turtle. She slides her feet back into her slippers and dons her robe.

Just before she reaches the door, she turns back. “Rest well, husband.”

The door opens. She’s gone.

He rolls over to his stomach to bury his nose in the sheets where her head lately rested. He fills his lungs with her and tries to think what to do. He could follow her to her chamber and take by force what is his. But his stomach churns at the thought. He wants her willing or not at all. He could take his already re-hardening prick in hand and then go sensibly to sleep and decide his course of action in the morning.

What he does instead is dress himself and stick his head out the door to bark at the guards, “Bring me Hux!”

His general arrives and stands at attention, betraying no surprise at having been thus summoned on the royal wedding night.

“Is there still fighting? Kir— the queen said my soldiers have breached the peace treaty.”

Hux answers carefully. “As is to be expected, sire, small skirmishes continue. Nothing of note.”

“Regularly?” Kylo growls.

“Nightly, I believe.”

“Where?”

“A scant half hour’s ride.”

Kylo picks up his sword and slides it into its scabbard. “Take me there.”

* * *

Rose hovers over her like an anxious mother as she unties the bundle. “You’re certain he didn’t hurt you?”

“Not in the least.” She pulls on the trousers quickly and bundles her hair up. “Hand me the mask.” Rose obeys. “The horse is ready?”

“Yes, but _please_ reconsider. At least wait until another night. What if he comes looking for you?”

“He won’t.” She secures the length of fabric that binds her breasts and dons the dark shirt. “You’re certain of the route you described? And I’ll be able to get back in after?”

Rose nods. “I’ve taken it a dozen times and have never been seen. But what if you’re injured?”

She smiles. “They haven’t managed it yet. _God,_ it will be good to hold a sword again.”

“Please,” Rose begs earnestly. “Stay.”

“You know that as long as I can help ease their suffering, I will.”

“Then take care of yourself,” Rose pleads.

“I always do.” She tugs the rope and leans out the window, judging the difficulty of her climb. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”

“As long as you’re back before the _king_ knows you’re gone.”

She adjusts her dagger so it lies snugly against her thigh. “I promise.” She swings her feet out the window, tugs her mask to make sure it’s secure, and grins at the sunset.

Now her wedding night _truly_ begins.


	4. Needle

Kylo rides hard. Midnight catches scent of his mood and forges ahead eagerly—man and beast tearing through the dusk. It’s all Hux can do to keep up with him. Kylo leans forward and urges the warhorse on, faster and faster, as if there exists an attainable speed that will let him outstrip the memory of his humiliation.

It would not have been so bad, if only his under-tunic hadn’t gotten caught under his knees as he crawled on the bed, or if he’d caught her wrist before it had flown to his throat, or if rational thought hadn’t abandoned him at the fresh, long-remembered bite of the blade, or if only he hadn’t...

He curses viciously. He allowed a woman to put him in a position of weakness. She had refused him, defied him, and his body had mistaken it for ecstasy. He’d always known he would leave her with his spend dripping down her inner thighs. He didn’t know it would _only_ be on her inner thighs.

He shakes his head sharply to try to clear it: to rouse himself from this nightmare realm where his wife had told him he would never bed her and he simply rolled over and acquiesced. How did _she_ put _him_ on his back?

He slows Midnight a bit and reflects. She was frightened. Any bride would be, to be far from the land that was her home, without motherly guidance. As a maiden, she must have feared their joining. He should have been gentler with her. He should have patiently indulged her feminine whims. She should have been obedient, of course, but she needed a firm and steady hand and he failed to give her one. He failed his first trial as a husband.

A _husband._ Kylo slows Midnight to a trot and rubs his gloved thumb over his forehead. He has become what he’d always sneered at, and all he has to show for it is a cold, empty bed and an anonymous black tunic and breeches and a sword in his belt.

He could have taken any woman to wife. He could have chosen some meek, docile lady who would’ve bitten her tongue as he entered her, and he could have left his spend in her tight heat with a grunt and untied her chemise and kissed her tits until his cock swelled again, and the next time he took her he could have pinned her forearms to the pillow beside her head and she wouldn’t have uttered a word of protest, just borne his sweaty attentions with duty and fortitude. He could have had her with child by dawn.

He wants none of that, only her. His wife. _Kira._

He spurs Midnight and gallops onward toward the night.

* * *

“Princess!” Finn exclaims in surprise.

 _“Shh!”_ Poe claps a hand over his mouth.

She ducks into the stable and embraces both her comrades. “How are the villagers?”

“How are _they?”_ Finn scoffs. “What about _you?_ Is he as cruel as everyone says?”

“N—no,” Rey says, hesitating over the word.

“He’s hurt you, hasn’t he,” Finn fumes. “I’ll cut out his heart, I swear—”

“Let her say two words together,” Poe hushes him.

Finn fixes her with his warm, inquisitive eyes, and she smiles. “He’s just a scared boy.”

Poe scoffs. “He gives a remarkably good imitation of being a warrior.”

“That’s all it is: an imitation. I can handle him.”

“I’m sure he won’t take kindly to being handled,” Finn worries.

Rey plucks a bow from its hiding place in the straw and hums evasively as she tests its strength.

“When is the wedding?” Poe asks.

“Today.”

“What, tomorrow?”

“No.” She glances up at them both. “It was today.”

Poe lets out a low whistle, and Finn looks aghast. “You left on your _wedding night,_ Princess? Don’t you think he might notice?”

“I did what I had to.” She avoids their eyes as she anchors the bow with one foot and loops the other leg through to string it. “It’s not what you imagine.”

There’s a pause in which she can picture them exchanging glances.

“I don’t know what else we can imagine,” Poe says hesitantly.

“Not that,” she retorts curtly.

“How worried should we be for you?” Finn asks gently. “Tell us true.”

She smiles up at him. “Not at all. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten how I handle myself.”

Poe grins. “I don’t know, Princess, you might be rusty.”

She drops the bow and feints left, then darts forward to snatch his leg out from under him. He lands on his back with a thump on the straw beneath him. Finn crows, and Poe groans. “I’d forgotten how _quick_ you are.”

She grins as she extends a hand and pulls him to his feet. “Let’s see if the king’s soldiers have too, shall we?”

“They’ve been getting fat and lazy without you,” Finn smirks.

“Where are ‘Bacca and the others?” Rey asks.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Finn says. “We came on ahead to check the weapons.”

She picks up her discarded bow and examines the end. “Tell me truly, how bad is it?”

“Not nearly what it was before,” Finn hastens to assure her. “The attacks feel more like habit than anything. Their hearts aren’t in it.”

“But it’s not peace.”

“We never expected peace,” Finn replies. “You know that. But it’s better. You’ve saved lives.”

“They usually arrive at sundown,” Poe says, and as if on cue, a shout is heard in the distance. They all snap to action. “Ready, Princess?”

She checks the dagger at her thigh and grins. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The rope swings as she heaves herself arm over arm, up to Rose’s outstretched hands that help pull her up and in through the window. Rose looks her up and down for injury, but she waves her away and catches her breath as her friend ducks out the window to pull the rope up into a coil on the floor.

She would rather not cause Rose worry, but there’s no way to conceal it forever. “He was there.”

Rose freezes. “Who?”

“Kylo,” she pants.

“The _king?”_ Rose hisses.

“What other Kylo do we know? Yes, the king.”

“Did he see you?” Rose demands.

She tugs her mask off and pulls out her dagger. “He saw me; he didn’t recognize me.”

“What was he doing there?” Rose asks as she hefts the rope into an empty chest and covers it with folded linens.

“Fighting.”

“The _king_ went to fight a bunch of villagers on his _wedding night?”_

She shrugs. “He wore all black and carried a plain sword. No one knew he was the king.”

“Except you.”

“Except me.”

Rose sinks to the bed in disbelief. “Of all the nights for him to join the fighting.”

“I don’t...” She clears her throat. “I don’t think it was a coincidence.”

“What?” Rose’s head snaps up. “Why?”

“He was likely frustrated when I left. I mean—”

“You didn’t let him bed you?”

“No, but—”

“You’re playing with _fire._ To go meet him on the battlefield like that? What were you thinking!?”

“Keep your voice down! You know what I was thinking.” She goes to her friend and placatingly smooths her hair. “I’ll do anything to keep them safe.”

“Anything?” Rose asks softly.

She hesitates. “You think I should’ve yielded to him.”

Rose shakes her head sorrowfully and catches her friend’s hand. “You know better than I what you can endure. But I’m afraid for you. His patience will run out.”

“Don’t worry.”

“It’s easy to say _don’t worry;_ it’s harder to keep from worrying.”

“I promise, I’ll keep him in good humor.”

Rose quirks an eyebrow. “Not quite so good that he won’t go to battle on his wedding night.”

“Battle, you say?” She smirks. “Which one?”

* * *

He sleeps fitfully, torn between shadowy dreams of sword fighting by torchlight and his wife, hovering just out of reach. _Come get me,_ she taunts, stretching out her arms to him, _if you can._

 _Wait for me,_ he pleads, but with a grin she turns and flees, and he wakes tangled in sweaty sheets, rutting into the wrong yielding softness. It should’ve been his wife, not this bed of down, and he brings a fist down hard on the pillow and grits his teeth as his other hand goes down to finish the job roughly. His nose searches the pillow in vain for her scent, but he smells only the sweat that clings to him, and the tendons in his neck strain with the force of his hips’ thrusts into his waiting fist. He spends in the sheets with a strangled shout and collapses to lie desolate in his mess.

The world doesn’t look quite so grim by the light of the dawn. He rouses himself and goes to the window to watch the sun’s rays crest the distant trees. He watches the day begin and he plans.

He won’t give her the satisfaction of admitting how much he desires her: his pride won’t stand for it. She thinks she has him off balance. He’s never been steadier. He still has the upper hand, now and forever. He will teach her the deference she owes him.

He slices his thigh with a blade for the requisite sprinkle of blood to leave on the sheets. His seed, at least, is no facsimile. He smears red into white, and as he does, he steels his spine and makes a vow:

This will be the last blood he sheds over the woman who is his wife.

* * *

She holds her head high and wraps her robe around her as the guard opens his door to her that night.

“Good evening, husband.”

The door thuds shut behind her, leaving them alone.

“An interesting choice of words.” He is dressed in black breeches and a black tunic open wide at the chest, standing by the wall that holds his swords. Her heart pounds at the thought that they will meet again tonight, to the fighting.

“How is that?” she answers placidly. “Is it not a good evening?” Without waiting to be invited, she goes to one of the chairs by the fire and sits down. She pulls out the embroidery that she secreted in the folds of her robe and sets demurely to work.

Kylo clears his throat. “I’m referring to the other word. _Husband.”_

“You are my husband, are you not?” she asks, head bowed over her needle. “I seem to recall a wedding ceremony.”

Kylo snatches a sword from the metal bracket that holds it on the wall and stalks over to the fireplace. She doesn’t look up, even when she hears him sink into the chair opposite her.

“A marriage is not final in the eyes of God without consummation,” he says, with the barest hint of a whine in the back of his throat.

“I did not know He was so keenly interested in the goings-on of a marriage bed.” She bites the inside of her cheek, wondering if she’s gone too far. She chances a glance up at him, and he holds a cloth in one hand, poised to polish his sword.

“You blaspheme,” he growls in a low voice.

“What is a little blasphemy between husband and wife?” She tosses him the ghost of a sly grin, and her eyes dart back to her embroidery.

His hand starts to work the metal, slowly back and forth along the length of the blade. “You are a cursed creature by way of a queen.” His voice holds no malice, only a confused question.

She looks up at him seriously. “I said that I will be your wife and your queen by day, and I meant it. You will find nothing to reproach in my public behavior, and if you do, you only need to say the word and I will correct myself. I owe them that, at least.” She adds the last sentence more for herself, and his gaze turns quizzical, but he does not answer.

The firelight dapples his cheek and throws into relief the muscle exposed at the open neck of his tunic. A muscle in his chest tenses rhythmically as his hand works over the steel he rubs. She swallows and looks down.

“I will wait until you are ready,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean?” She pierces the fabric with her needle and tugs the thread through.

“You know what I mean.” His hand jerks relentlessly. She can feel his eyes on her as plainly as she feels the fire’s heat.

“Very well.” She looks up at him. “Then that is our accord. I will be anything you require during the day, and you will not let the violence go beyond small skirmishes. And I will only come to your bed if I choose.”

 _“When_ you choose.”

She fixes him with a glare.

_“If.”_


End file.
